


Crossing The Water

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales: Interlude [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A green ladder, Honey, M/M, Romance, TAB Universe, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John Watson, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army, sees an intriguing stranger on the other side of a lake.





	Crossing The Water

**Author's Note:**

> Still finishing this latest series of Postcard Tales. This offering is rather sweet, I think. Hope you like. Let me know.

Crossing The Water

 

The cottage seemed to promise the perfect remedy to the sense of malaise and occasional black moods that I had so often found myself falling into since my ignominious return from my late service with Her Majesty’s forces in the unhappy realm of the Afghans. When a distant cousin offered me the use of her country home, I gratefully took up the opportunity, hoping that a fortnight away from the hustle and bustle of London might return me to form. Or at any rate, as close to form as I am likely to get, given the bullet that had smashed into my shoulder and the near-deadly infections which ended my military career and quite possibly my calling as a surgeon as well.

Certainly the setting of the cottage was as idyllic as had been promised, with fields of wildflowers all about and a crystal blue lake on which the cosy little house fronted. I arrived on a perfect June morning and was warmly greeted by an elderly woman from the nearby village. She would come in daily to tidy and also to provide simple meals of the sort that would, hopefully, help to build up my strength. Although it must be admitted that I had no real notion of what I would do with my life even if I did manage to regain some of my previous vigour.

After a bracing cup of tea served with slices of fresh bread laden with butter and drizzled with lovely golden honey, which the chattering housekeeper told me was from a local apiary, I decided a short walk was in order. Not surprisingly, I was drawn to the sparkling water of the lake and was delighted to find a brightly painted wooden bench placed in the perfect location for watching the scene.

The setting was so salubrious that, for the moment at least, I resolved to let go the bitterness, the darkness of spirit that had consumed me over the months since my injury. The sun gently warmed my pallor, the heavy scent of the flowers was soothing and the soft lapping of the water against the shore provided a pleasant music to my ears. I dared to relax and let a sense of peace enter my soul.

The lake, at least at this point, was not wide. I could easily see the opposite shore and, through a stand of trees, what appeared to be a large and rather lavish residence. There were even more wildflowers on that side of the lake than here. I was curious about the house and resolved to ask Mrs Howe, the loquacious housekeeper, about who lived in such a splendid home. I already sensed that she would be a font of local information.

I took a moment to pack my trusty Meerschaum with some shag and took several deep breaths to get it primed. 

When finally I directed my gaze back towards the other shore, I realised that I was no longer alone in the landscape.

A man now paced near the water’s edge. Back and forth he went, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, his gaze apparently fixed only on the floor beneath his feet.

From my position, I could see that he was a tall, slender gentleman, dressed rather formally for merely taking a walk along the lakeshore, in a black suit, vivid emerald green waistcoat and collared shirt, but no tie or cravat. The only other indication that he was simply taking his leisure was the unruly tumult of dark curls that had clearly not been pomaded into place.

No doubt I was being extraordinarily rude by watching him so closely, but fervent curiosity has always been a fault in my nature and, even more shamefully, I sometimes weave small tales in my mind about the people I encounter on the street or in a train compartment.

So what tale could I construct about the peripatetic stranger across the water?

Having recently been attempting to distract my restless mind by reading Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ , my mind moved in that direction and I fancied the man as a lost prince, cruelly cast out from the Court, betrayed by an evil sibling and forced to make his way in the world. Finding himself alone on an impossible quest.

[Yes, I am a foolish man, but such private games amuse me, especially in dark times, and they do no harm to anyone else.]

When I left my secret narrative behind and refocussed my gaze across the water, I was startled to realise that the stranger had stopped his restless pacing and was now staring at me with an intensity that I could feel even across the distance between us. I could not imagine what about my being had caught his attention. I was but a grey shadow of the man I used to be, a gaunt spectre with a walking stick always to hand.

Rattled by both his close scrutiny and my own thoughts, I quickly took up my stick and headed back towards the cottage with the greatest speed I could manage.

+

I do not know what drew me back to the lakeside bench the next day. I had slept well the previous night, despite dreams that were filled with images of a strange dark figure who seemed always just out of my reach, no matter how I pursued him. Unsettling as they were, those odd visions were still better than the nightmares which had haunted me for weeks.

After a lazy morning and a hearty lunch of a rich beef soup and more of the excellent bread, I found my footsteps taking me back to the lake and the bench that already seemed like my own. On the journey, I paused briefly to examine the wooden shed that stood near the bench. It contained only a small, but trim rowboat. The sight took me back to my youth and summers spent in the Scottish dales with my grandparents, when I had passed many an indolent afternoon drifting on the pond behind their house in just such a boat.

I closed the shed up again and walked on to my bench. I had not been sitting there above twenty minutes when he appeared.

Today he wore a grey suit with a pale yellow shirt and a black waistcoat. Apparently he permanently scorned the idea of neck-wear. Unlike the previous day, there was no pacing. This time he simply came to the water’s edge and stared at me quite openly. 

I endeavoured not to let his renewed attention discombobulate me again. Instead, I merely went through the soothing routine of filling and lighting my pipe. It amused me to see that the other man followed my lead. We simply smoked and watched one another. It was oddly companionable.

Finally, I glanced at my watch, recalling that I had several letters to write and post, hoping that one of my acquaintances might know of a position, hopefully in London, that I could fill. A holiday to the country was fine and good, but real life awaited me all too soon. This time, as I rose to depart, I ventured a wave to the man. And, after a pause, he lifted his hand in response.

I knew that I was smiling as I made my way back to the cottage, although the reason for my sudden cheer was unclear.

+

It was not until the next morning, over yet another hearty country breakfast, that I asked Mrs Howe, the worthy woman providing me sustenance, about the house on the other side of the lake.

After her usual protestations that it was not her habit to gossip, she began to tell me about the Holmes family. “Oh, they are a peculiar bunch,” she said with a certain enthusiasm. “Rich as Croesus, you know, so they can afford to be odd. Lord Holmes keeps talking about resigning his seat in the Lords, passing it on to his son. The father is nice enough, but a bit…vague. Forgetful. My late husband always said he could not imagine what the man actually did in parliament. In my opinion, if you ask, it is the missus who runs things over there. She actually took up some quite unsuitable occupation. Mathematics or some such thing. Can you imagine?” She sniffed.

“What about the son?” I asked, wondering about my odd…acquaintance was not quite the correct word, but I could not think of another. Was he bound for the government? It amused me that my first thought at the notion was of those untamed curls, which would certainly not be welcomed in the corridors of power.

Mrs Howe was just getting started, it seemed. “Sons,” she corrected me. “Mycroft is the elder. He works in Whitehall doing something very hush-hush. Don’t think he comes around much.” She paused in her kneading of the dough that would no doubt soon be more of the bread of which I had become very fond. “There is a second son as well. Sherlock [such odd names, aren’t they, Doctor?] He also lives in London, but I have heard that he is back at the moment.” She glanced around, although we were clearly the only ones in the cottage, and lowered her voice. “Rumour has it that he had some kind of difficulty and fled back here to avoid trouble.” 

“Hmm,” was all I said. Perhaps a bit foolishly, I had no doubt that my friend on the far shore was this Sherlock Holmes chap.

“He does some kind of peculiar so-called job in London. Solving crimes or something that ought to be left to those employed to do so at that Scotland Yard.” She decided that the dough was ready. “Although I will say that Sherlock Holmes is the one who provides the honey you enjoy so much. He was always mad on bees from when he was a boy.”

So my lost prince fancied himself some kind of avenging hero.

That made him not one whit less fascinating to me.

And he was also responsible for bringing a lovely sweetness into my life.

+

That day I sat alone at the lake. Although I waited until long after I should have gone in for my tea, the opposite shore remained barren of life.

My dreams that night were once again of war and blood, causing me to wake in the early hours with a gasp. I wiped the dampness from my face and curled around the goose down pillow as if it could save me from drowning in the memories.

+

Even Mrs Howe noticed my change in attitude the next morning. Her response was to add extra honey to my toast, but that really only served to further my dark mood.

With a lack of enthusiasm and pretending not to notice that my limp was worse today than it had been, I nevertheless made my way down to the bench. In solitude, I smoked my pipe and was just about to stop such foolish yearning [although what I was yearning for remained vague] when suddenly my attention was caught by a flurry of movement on the opposite shore. When I looked, I saw the young man [Sherlock Holmes, I was still convinced] run to the lake’s edge. He had clearly left the house in a rush, because he had donned only grey trousers and a white shirt. Even his feet were bare.

I watched, smiling faintly as he obviously fought to catch his breath.

Finally, he straightened and gave me a smile.

Is it possible to make a decision without really deciding to do so?

Apparently it is, because suddenly I stood. I could see the smile vanish, but I merely held up a hand in a gesture of reassurance. He watched as I walked back to the shed and when I managed to drag the rowboat out, the smile reappeared. [It was not until much later that I realised my damned walking stick was still propped against the bench.]

My shoes and trouser hems got wet as I pushed the boat into the water and climbed in, but I paid that no mind. The first couple of pulls on the oars were rather clumsy, but the rhythm soon came back to me.

As the small boat moved through the water, I kept my gaze on the goal. He stood still, hands in his pockets again, and just watched.

When I arrived at the water’s edge, he stepped forward to help me pull the boat onto land. When it was secure, I straightened and held out my hand. “John Watson,” I said.

He took my hand into and held it firmly. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. His voice was almost musical and his curls were even more riotous than usual.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” I remarked.

He finally released his grip on my hand and I immediately felt bereft. As one, we turned and started to walk away from the lake. I had no idea where we might be going, but it mattered not at all.

“Well, that is an interesting story,” he said. “Involving a murderous window cleaner and a green ladder. I could tell you it, if you are interested.” His sidewise glance at me was almost shy.

“I am extremely interested,” I said.

So, as we walked, Sherlock Holmes told me a tale of murder and deceit and how he solved it all. It was better than any of the stories I had made up over the years and I tried to remember every detail so that I might record it in my journal later.

When, in his eagerness to show off his apiary to me, Sherlock grabbed my hand to drag me along more quickly, it seemed nothing but absolutely right.

+

In a distant future that I could not imagine on that sunny afternoon, the investigation, by then entitled The Mystery of the Green Ladder, while clever in its own right, was primarily known to the public as the last case that Sherlock Holmes solved without the aid of his Boswell and stalwart companion, Dr John Watson. Although Sherlock, a secret sentimentalist, always told me that my help had been invaluable, because his eagerness for another rendezvous on the lakeshore lead him to solve the puzzle much more quickly than he would have done otherwise.

I would always reward his sweet words with a kiss.

**

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Crossing The Water by Sylvia Plath


End file.
